As with every morning, I awake to feed our dogs, cats, squirrels, and my wife. Today, I didn’t have time to feed myself because of gambling and the month of March. It’s that time of year when some may succumb to the evils I once left resting, snoring, or throwing up on a blackjack table.
I may lose twenty bucks during this March Madness, but I will forget the twenty dollars and relish in the fact I can feed the dogs, cats, squirrels, and, once in a while, my wife.
It’s time for March Madness, and more importantly, gambling.
My wife wants my advice regarding the NCAA tournament brackets. She believes I know more about gambling than the professionals in Las Vegas making a living off of people like me. I am currently paying off some of their mortgages.
It should be simple, but it is also fun and unpredictable. The weather in Seattle or the East Coast is far more predictable.
Growing up a bad Catholic, I was encouraged to give up something for forty or forty six days during Lent. Drinking, gambling and Whoppers were always options, but I chose to give up swearing one year. The former three were just incomprehensible. I F–ed up the second day regarding the swearing. I was forgiven on the next day.
One of my best friends is a Lutheran. Lutherans celebrate Lent and abstinence somewhat different from Catholics. Other than ashes, I asked him what he is giving up on this year. He replied, “My Marriage.” The papers are being filed as I write. I guess guilt is not an acquired taste for Lutherans. God Bless them.
The love of money and Ding Dongs are the root of all evil.
Gambling had consumed my life by the time I was seven years old. The transition from horse racing to gambling on football was far too smooth. It should have raised red, white and blue flags for friends and family. Yet, at age seven, when you are betting candy bars, one dollar bills, one hundred pennies, twenty five nickels, excessive yard work, or even a trade for a better school lunch, it almost seemed both trivial and fun…….which is exactly what is best about gambling. Unless you are a professional, it better be about the fun.
In 1980, I won a Super Bowl bet with my first chump. Years before I turned seven, while recognizing I was losing bets against elders, I decided to pick on some of my peers. It was the first time I made a bet on a team I wasn’t rooting for, but Vegas knew more than me or this other clown only betting on numbers and colors.
The Philadelphia Eagles were playing the sinister Oakland Raiders, with the Raiders being favored by 6 and a half. I didn’t like the Raiders, but I knew they were better than the Eagles. My friend, Brian, loved the Eagles and didn’t know they’d probably lose to the Raiders. This is the seven year old’s conundrum. How do you bet someone with no money at the age of seven? Our only collateral was food.
Bless my mother’s loving heart, Brian’s mother was always on the cutting edge of sack lunches where as my mother was more interested in a proper lunch withholding dessert. His mother placed items in his lunch making his sack look like a brown bag Frito Lay/Hershey factory. My lunch was white bread, mayo, and processed Buddig chicken, turkey, beef, or whatever kind of Fisher Price meat one could only carve with an exacto knife. She tossed in some veggies as a chaser.
Never a bully, I wasn’t just going to steal Brian’s lunch, and he wasn’t willing to trade his Ring Dings or Cheetos for celery sticks. My mother had maintained this strange notion that my lunches should be healthy and the snacks we had at home be reserved for special occasions such as the Super Bowl and other phony holidays. Therefore, I thought, with a few embellishments, I could score some of his midday delights. It took gambling to make that work. Although we did have Ding Dongs at home, and depending on the weather or amount of people coming in and out of our house, it was never a sure bet you’d get one before mom had to make her weekly run to the store. So, when I told my friend I would give him two ding dongs for his package of Doritos, (something we never had) he needed proof. He needed to see the Ding Dongs before we solidified the bet.
The Wednesday morning before the Super Bowl, just before receiving a kiss on the cheek from my mother on the way to school, I created a diversion by spotting two chickadees in our backyard. My mother is a sucker for birds. On her way to get some seed, I snatched two Ding Dongs before she could wave goodbye.
At school, Brian asked me if I had the goods. Opening my denim jacket revealing two silvery encased snacks, he was more than satisfied. The bet was on. As a good Catholic boy, I didn’t succumb to temptation that day. The Ding Dongs were properly replaced upon returning home. Eating them before the bet would have pissed off the gambling Gods. Bad Karma.
My betting team, the Oakland Raiders, ended up cruising to a victory over the Philadelphia Eagles, 27-10. That next Monday morning, my friend was there with the Doritos. I knew he would be good for it. He saw me flashing my Ding Dongs around to other cats in our elementary school the week before, and he knew some pencils might be broken if he didn’t pay up. That’s really when it started.
By the time I was in the fourth grade, Frito Lay was making different brands of chips never available at home. Still winning, I began doubling down on empty Cool Ranch bags just to display my playground credibility. Those sandwich sized bags were easy to hide and could be found all over any grocery store littering complex. I probably could have made more money off of recycling. A guilty conscience has no room for a successful gambler. After a four year run of winning Super Bowl bets just to satisfy my savory tooth, I began feeling remorse as they were not in my league. It was like taking Doritos from babies. When you describe the point spread to someone knowing nothing about the point spread, it’s just not fair. I was getting 20 points when my team was favored by 3 and the hook. (The hook is the half point separating the winners from the losers.) I couldn’t lose.
Sometimes, when hobbies lose their luster, you get bored. Gambling lost its luster when I began playing games competitively. Win or lose, the scoreboard provided satisfaction after a ballgame. And, it was always fair, even when we’d come out on the losing side.
Post college, when I began earning my own money, I dabbled in gambling once again. Winning and losing….(mostly losing)….. I had some fun and ruined some remote controls along the way. It’s been years since I’ve been to Vegas or Reno, but I have fun betting with a brother or friend, or even playing fantasy foolsball. I don’t enjoy betting in groups. It dilutes the party. One on one gambling is fun, because it usually involves a good lunch.
I’ll be giving points this weekend while rooting for the Atlanta Falcons over The Tom Bradies. Win or lose, I’ll be eating well somewhere, and it won’t be just a bag of chips.
One would think, with the Super Bowl more than a week away, gambling may be slow for the remaining eight excruciating days without American football. This is the only event in America creating thousands of jobs the following Monday when so many don’t report to work after Super Bowl Sunday.
Not so fast. With the new President stirring things up a bit, I have already won a friendly bet regarding his idea that Mexico would be more than happy to pay for a 14 billion dollar wall separating the alliance with our tequila manufacturing amigos. While I believed Mexico would be setting up pinatas in the shape of a malignant narcissistic, pouty faced, bullying liar, my friend truly believed Mexico would cower to Trump as though he was a card carrying member of the Magnificent Seven. Still, it took some persuasive tactics to convince him to take the bet. I had to provide odds. So, I told him if Mexico declined on this more than generous olive branch of opportunity, his end of the bargain was treating me to a bowl of Seattle’s finest clam chowder. If Mexico was drunk enough to say, “ayyeee yeyyy yeeea, yi yi yi, Si! Build thee wall. We pay for it all, amigo! Do you want my wife and daughter as well? Ahh ha ha ha ha ha ha!” I told him I’d give him 14 billion dollars. Pretty risky bet, but I felt the odds were still in my favor.
Winning the bet, my friend was less than happy to pay for the chowder when he found out it contained a mysterious spice indigenous only to Mexico, thus costing him an extra dollar for the importation tariff.
Without disclosing how I voted, I find certain observations by the person who will hold the highest position in the world relatively overrated. That doesn’t mean I necessarily agree with some people, places and things he believes to be overrated or fake. I just think some of his true comments are funny. So, let’s laugh for the next four years before I run for President…….of some undisclosed or, “fake” nation.
“Midwestern ice storms are overrated.”
“Christmas is way overrated. Who is this Jesus guy?”
“Carrots are overrated. They don’t improve your eyesight. Just ask Bugs Bunny.”
“Chess is overrated.”
“Gandhi should have eaten more.”
“Cassius Clay was clearly overrated.”
“I’ve never heard of Babe Ruth, but I bet he was overrated.”
“Lou Gehrig was a phony. That disease is overrated.”
“Great White Sharks are overrated. Jaws was fake. Just look at the footage. It’s comical.”
“Rocky is real.”
“The Moon doesn’t exist ……respectfully, for those who thought they walked on it.”
“Hacking, unless properly utilized, is overrated.”
“Bigfoot does exist, just in case you were wondering. I can’t prove it. I can’t prove anything.”
” And lastly, and most critical, Cheetos are overrated. The mascot is not Tony the Tiger.”
Only because he will destroy our country, or make it better, as an American voter, I will root for him, but I won’t kiss his lucky tower.
This puny world can exist without Barnum and Bailey’s elephants, but we can also exist without this clown.
Similar to questioning one’s faith, I am questioning who I’m rooting for to win the World Series. I’ve never been an avid Cubs fan, but I’ve been to Wrigley Field. Does that somehow qualify me as being a year long fan? I don’t know. I like the Cleveland Indians, but I’ve never been to the garden city, so I’m a bit torn. Therefore, one must always, beyond a coin flip, decide which way they should root. Two of my best friends, my brother, Tom, and a dear old man, Marshall, are rooting for the Indians. They are the only ones, (inside of my circle of nonsense), I know rooting for the Indians, and they share the same birthdate. Is this ironic or just coincidental? Only the late, great George Carlin could answer this question. For me, I’ve decided it’s all about game seven. That’s all I really care about. Ultimately, I say, “Piss on games one through five. Let’s root for games six and seven!”
Disclosure: (Assuming the Cubs win game five)
I simply love gambling, and a wise man once told me, “No matter what the odds are, bet on your grand niece.” Actually, the wise man was me after losing a race to my grand niece, Emma. It’s the first time I genuinely didn’t mind losing.
Loving the ponies at an early age, and being subjected to illegal gambling as a six year old apprentice, I loved the names of the horses more than anything else. Money meant nothing to me. Chocolate milk, butterscotch pudding, and a good pizza meant so much more. When my father and some brothers went to the track, while dad studied the race manual we’d find in the garbage can on the way in, I would just look at the names. Anytime a horse had a name affiliated with one of my twelve older siblings, well, that was my two dollar pick.
“Tommy Gan Go” was one of our favorites. He was usually the fastest. Since my closest brother’s name was, and still remains, Tom, it was an easy pick, and usually a winner.
“Mary Can Meltdown” was always a crowd favorite because she would be in the lead for the initial three quarters of the mile, and then begin throwing her horseshoes at people in the stands for not betting on her. This was oddly similar to my sister at her Christmas Eve parties.
“Greg Can Cook” commonly placed. My brother, Greg, is the second best cook I’ve ever met.
“Patricia Can Fly” usually would come in stand by, or fourth, making us no money. Ironically, my sister, Patricia, is a flight attendant, formerly known as a stewardess.
Having so many siblings made it handy to choose my wishful winner, but never did I see a horse with my name included. So, I had to digress to dog racing to pick my favorite name, and bet on it. “Goofy Wizard”. That dog wasn’t always winning, but it’s still running.
Yesterday, after losing a race to my grand niece, if I ever decide to buy a horse and race it, without my wife’s consent, she will be respectfully named, “Emma Can Run”.
Convincing my wife to watch “Dancing with the Stars” with me the other evening caused her to look at me as though I’d finally started taking hallucinogenic drugs. Of course, I don’t use drugs. That still remains years and blocks down the path of my bumpy life. She was surprised, because I’d never made such a suggestion. Late at night, it’s usually Seinfeld or Jaws putting us to sleep.
For years, my mother and one of my brothers have watched this dazzling show and find it entertaining, so I thought we’d give it a shot. It was entertaining. You put a pair of dancing boots on Geraldo Riviera, and it guarantees entertainment, in the most sinister of ways. Not that I can dance, but if Geraldo’s partner just brought a carry on cardboard cutout through customs of him on stage, you wouldn’t have known the difference. I don’t mind making fun of Geraldo. I felt he owed me after making me suffer through three hours of mindless television regarding an Al Capone vault not providing any substance or resolution as to why we paid for television.
Years ago, when this delightful program began to air, my mother immediately took interest. So, living in another city and speaking to her only once a week, I always wished to take interest in her leisurely activities. Watching “Dancing with the Stars” and “Little House on the Prairie” was one of her activities.
Not giving a Yankee dime about the outcome of the dancers’ demise, I loved my mother’s commentary. Similar to rooting for a baseball, football or basketball team you don’t give a crap about, you wish to support the ones you love, even if it involves dancing or soccer. I wanted to root for her horse in this race.
“Who are you pulling for, mom?”
“I’m rooting for the girl with the wooden leg.”
With my sister laughing in the background, I replied with some distraction and incredulousness. “What? Is this dancing with the stars, or dancing with the pirates? Does she dance with an eye patch, and is the parrot on her shoulder taking lessons as well?”
Turns out, Paul McCartney’s ex wife was participating in the event, and I had no clue she had a wooden leg, or “prosthetic” now used in times following ancient Greece. Loving my mother, unconditionally, I had to root for the lady with the wooden leg.
On the way to church, I stopped by a casino.
This is the worst story ever told. At the conclusion of Lent, Easter and gambling can be lurking around every corner of the religious universe, much like a sneaky bunny or Jesus, unifying as one when it comes to sinning. Gambling should be the 11th commandment of sin and redemption. Thou shalt not gamble, unless it is on Easter, or the night before, or whatever. Several days ago, with March Madness diving deep into gamblers’ britches, I preached about how gambling and betting on others is not wrong, but stupid. It is stupid, yet, when you can somehow make something positive out of gambling, it can be righted and somewhat shrewd……piously speaking.
One year ago today, alone on Easter Eve, I thought I’d attend church for the first time in years. Thirty years of my Easters were spent standing behind those who flew in from Hell three times a year just to feel good about themselves. That aways intrigued me, since I spent every weekend going to church for thirty years, only to feel bad about myself. Perhaps, this is why this story may be immoral to some, yet redeeming to other scofflaws.
While my wife was away for that Easter weekend, I decided to play………some black jack. It was right on the way to the Easter Vigil service. I had fifty bucks in my wallet, and I was, with the good Lord willing, going to turn that fifty dollars into one hundred. Water into Wine, cash into chips, chips back into cash. (With the exception of water into wine, that’s gambling lingo.) I don’t know if God happily intervened on that day, but my card playing certainly became Holy. It took me ten minutes to turn that fifty dollars into two hundred. Not that I know much about this stuff, but when a gambler is on a hot streak, it’s not in his or her best interest to leave the table….or so I have read. This is where God or Jesus stepped between the dealer and me and asked what time it was. 6:45. Fifteen minutes before mass. In all my years of attending mass, I don’t remember being late. Disinterested? Yes. Tardy. Negative. Immediately, I cashed in my bones, (chips) and headed to church.
Waiting one full hour, listening to the same speech, lecture, reading, and ultimately, beautiful story I’d heard annually, I waited impatiently for the basket to sheepishly roam around the congregation awaiting my tithing. With the exception of the ten dollars I saved for some fish, chowder, chips and a beer for my own dinner, I happily dumped my gambling wins in the basket. Some say I was playing with “House” money. That day, I was playing with God’s money, and it made me feel terrific to know someone else would be eating as well as me that evening. That’s one hell of an Easter.